


What It Means To Be Human

by soulgyrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Declarations Of Love, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Gen, Healing, M/M, One Night Stands, Pain, Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulgyrl/pseuds/soulgyrl
Summary: “There are some experiences in life they haven't invented the right words for.”― Lisa KleypasThe Holmes family secret is out of the closet. Now everyone involved must determine how they will get on with their lives and each other. Everyone must rethink for themselves what it means to be human.





	1. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All lives connected to 221B have been radically changed. Some hopes have been shattered. Some prayers have been answered. Some promises have been kept. Many secrets have been reveled. One thing is for certain, none of them will ever be quite the same. They have learned to look deep....to trust...to hate...to forgive...to love.... To feel and know what it's like to be human.
> 
> “And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”  
> ― Haruki Murakami

 

“I look out into the water and up deep into the stars. I beg the sparkling lanterns of light to cure me of myself — my past and the kaleidoscope of mistakes, failures and wrong turns that have stacked unbearable regret upon my shoulders.”   
― [ **Jennifer Elisabeth**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8346165.Jennifer_Elisabeth)

 

Mycroft Holmes sat brushing the mud off of his calfskin shoes. At five hundred pounds a pair, he did not relish the thought of having them sullied by the earth of that _awful_ island. The more he thought, the harder he brushed. If only he could sweep all of this...unpleasantness… right out of his life. The only good thing about it was that now...finally…the wretched business was out in the open.  The burden of those secrets, the lies, the deceit, the anger, and the silence on his part…it was over. There had been times in the past when he had felt that he would definitely crack under the weight of it all.

And, a whole lot of people were extremely angry with him at this moment. Not least of all his parents. Bloody hell. They would either get over it…or they wouldn’t. That was entirely out of his hands right now. He’d have a good long talk with them… eventually.

Because, quite honestly, he had bigger fish to fry at this juncture. Like replacing _everyone_ at Sherrinford. He had already whittled the staff down to bare bones and put in temporary replacements he felt he could trust. _How_ could things have gone so horribly wrong? I mean…even the _governo_ r for god’s sake! How could he have _not known_ , how could he have _not seen_. Nor anyone else with ties to Sherrinford. Or did they? Was it even possible that _every single one of them_ in that fortress had been fooled by his sister? He thought there _could_ have been a mole somewhere, but who? He had launched a full investigation into it, although he really wasn’t expecting any measurable results.

He’d even considered that members of his own secret cabinet might be involved. Lady Smallwood had been going through some trauma of her own following the suicide of her husband. And the whole regrettable A.G.R.A. incident had, thankfully, turned out _not_ to be her affair. He had hated accusing her of any connection, but he did what had to be done. He was quite pleased she was shown to be innocent. He liked her… and she was professional enough to not hold a grudge against him. Quite the opposite in fact, she appeared to admire him all the more for it. And as for Sir Edwin, he didn’t have the brains, plain and simple, to even _help_ orchestrate anything that elaborate. Sure, he was smart enough in his own right, but not when it came to being any sort of a mastermind.

 

So then, it came back to Eurus. Always Eurus. The thorn in his side from the day she was born. Even as an infant she had been spooky. She sat in her baby seat watching...just watching. You felt like she was trying to peer into your very soul. She never cried, not even when Sherlock accidentally split a mug of hot cocoa down her back when she was eight months old. She grimaced a bit and gave him the evil eye, but uttered not so much as a whimper. (Which one is pain?) All emotion appeared to be foreign to her. Well, maybe not all. She obviously relished others' agony.

Father was gone on business most of the time and mummy had that great, rambling house to care for, with occasional help of an elderly charwoman from town. And so, Mycroft was put in charge of his younger siblings on an almost daily basis; a task he complained about and deemed grossly unjust. Sherlock was fairly easy to keep occupied and placate if the need arose, but Eurus...Eurus was another matter altogether.

She really wasn’t interested in playing with Mycroft and any attempts he made at games with her were either rebuffed or simply ignored. She desperately wanted Sherlock’s attention, but she could barely keep up with his manic pace and often tried to put her own spin on his adventures… which did not sit well with him. Once, she broke the top off his toy sword because it “looked better jagged”. Sherlock was terribly upset and Mycroft, who had no sword of his own to offer as a replacement, tried to comfort him with a gift of some of his Matchbox collection.  He never participated in his little brothers pirate games, they were “too physical” for his liking. He preferred reading, board games, or running his little cars along the kitchen table. Sherlock happily accepted his brothers offering, but the next morning, they had mysteriously disappeared. Mrs. Holmes discovered them that evening in the compost bin. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to how they got there.

Less than two weeks later, the whole incident with “Redbeard” occurred. Even though there was no physical evidence to prove Eurus was involved, everyone in the family _knew_ what had happened. Life at the Holmes’ estate was shattered. Sherlock was beyond devastated and Mycroft deeply distressed. And the horror and agony of dealing with the Trevor family over the loss of their son, attempting to offer solace knowing it was your own daughter who was responsible, proved too much for Mummy, and she had a bit of a nervous breakdown. She was given tranquilizers which seemed to help for a time…until the fire. And then she was hospitalized.

Those who knew the sad story outside of the family had drawn their conclusions that the Holmes daughter was either psychotic, schizophrenic, mentally retarded, or, in the minds of some, just plain evil. But Mycroft knew there was something deeper. Yes, she had a profound psychosis, and yes, it manifested itself as a real danger to others, but she definitely was not mentally challenged, nor would he pronounce her evil. He knew her lashing out at Sherlock was not because she hated him, quite the opposite, she loved him, perhaps the only human she ever _had_ loved, and her jealousy over his friendship with Victor was something she knew not how to process in any rational manner. To Mycroft, she was…lost. Locked up in a mind that would not, could not, allow her to live in civil society. She would always be a threat to people, of that he had no doubt, but did she deserve to be buried away from all human contact? His young heart could not accept that, but his young mind could come up with no better solution.

And so, their sister went. Sheltered away from the rest of the universe. Her parents visited weekly, Mycroft went along sometimes, but Sherlock…never. And in time, little brother seemed to forget she ever existed at all. Sherlock’s mind became a palace to which he could add or delete information as he saw fit, while his sister’s mind remained a prison. Two years later, when Eurus set the second fire, Mycroft conspired with Uncle Rudy to send her to Sherrinford. They both agreed his parents should never be told. The news of her death sent both of the elder Holmes’ into a spiral for a bit, but time eventually brought, if not peace, at least a way to deal with the sadness.

And that was how, at the age of sixteen, the weight of the Holmes family’s wretched world, came to land on Mycroft’s shoulders. After Uncle Rudy died, he carried the cross the alone. He kept watch all these years on Sherlock, ever diligent in case some word, or action, or remnant out of his own memory palace might awaken the sleeping demon. It was what kept Mycroft himself from forming any close connections with anyone. Why “caring is not an advantage” became his mantra.

Now, those fortresses had all been washed away. Sherrinford may have been forged of steel and stone and built on solid ground, but quick sand had lain, unseen, beneath it all.

Now everything had changed dramatically…radically. His life would never be as it was before, and he was going to have to process how he would change with it. And quickly.

 

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”   
― [ **Henry Wadsworth Longfellow**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2697.Henry_Wadsworth_Longfellow)

 

 


	2. Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly tries to soldier through the aftermath of Sherlock's devastating call....with various degrees of success.

“Because what’s worse than knowing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?”  
― [**James Patterson**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3780.James_Patterson)

 

Molly Hooper dropped the phone on the counter and ran for the bathroom. She fell down in front of the toilet and lost what little bit she had managed to eat for breakfast into the bowl. When her stomach was emptied, bile followed, and then came the dry heaves. Mercifully, they finally subsided, but not before causing her head to pound, her throat to burn, and her abdomen to spasm in pain.

She lowered herself to the tiled floor. She wanted to scream, scream so long and so hard that it drove the last fifteen minutes right out of her head. She wanted to cry, cry so hard it washed away any lasting dredges of that memory that the screaming failed to drive out. She wanted to do these things, but she hadn’t the strength to do either of them.

Why… _why_ would he do that to her? Why would he call her and ask….no… _demand_ that she say that? Was he… _teasing_ her? He was thoughtless and rude; ridiculous and unkind…but he had never knowingly hurt her. Not really. Not that he _hadn’t_ hurt her. That Christmas night…when he’d said those terrible things and embarrassed the shit out of her…she’d thought that was the worse. But this… Yeah…..this. “It’s for a case,” he’d said. What case could possibly force him to do such a thing?

So, was this an experiment? It sounded like something Moriarty would do, but he’s dead. Isn’t he? Of course he is, so …not that.

And he’d just… hung up...he was just…gone. He’ll explain. Of course he will. But do I really want to know? Can I even face him again? He knew. He knew anyway. But was does it matter. The day I filled in for…John. He already knew.

She drew in a deep breath, sat up, and grabbing a piece of toilet paper, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She pulled herself up to the sink and looked in the mirror. _You look like shit, lady. You can’t keep letting him do this to you. You just can’t_.

She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. She washed her hair and scrubbed her arms until she drew blood.

In her closet: clothes she never wore. Never wore them, because she never went anywhere that warranted wearing half of what she had. She loved girly things, things that sparkled or glittered. She bought them and then wished she hadn’t. They only reminded her of all the lives she wasn’t living. And there wasn’t much call for shiny things in the morgue.

She needed to get out. She needed to dress up, and do her hair, and paint her nails, and feel pretty, and get the hell out of her flat. She settled on a turquoise frock, tight in the bust, and barely skimming the rear. And it glittered. She French tipped her nails and curled her hair. A little mascara and lip gloss, silver hoops and necklace, black heels and clutch. Now, where to go. That was easy…the only place she knew: The Mod. Besides the pub, it was the only place Tom had ever taken her. The club she’d frequented as a much younger girl had burned down years ago. And that greasy little hole in the wall “Jim” had taken her to once or twice. The thought made her skin crawl. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to throw the memory of that _cock_ into the mix now. Good riddance.

She’d never really got into the party scene. Too many drugs…and she abhorred _that_ lifestyle. But maybe she only felt that way because of….. No…no. Not going there. Tonight, I shall wine him right out of my mind. She called a cab…and waited.

 

* * *

 

Forty-five minutes and two glasses of Chardonnay later, Molly decided to progress to shots. Jägermeister was her usual poison of choice, but tonight felt more like a whisky night. She had just set the shot glass down on the table when a voice asked, “Would you like another?”

“Sorry?” She inquired as she turned in the voice’s direction. The person behind it was a stranger. He had a mop of ginger curls tossed on his head, and amber eyes looking out through John Lennon spectacles. Those eyes looked slightly…confused…uncertain?

 _Probably not unlike my own_ she thought.

She took in the rest of him before answering. Fresh-pressed khakis, a button down about the same color as her dress, expensive looking black shoes. The overall look just didn’t quite cut it and she couldn’t help but feel that either he over thought the dressing process, or didn’t think about it at all. He looked decidedly out of place and it was pretty evident this wasn’t his usual milieu.

Finally, “Yes…yes….thank you. I’d love another. You’ll have one too, I hope. That was a ‘Three Wise Men’, by the way. Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels. It’s whisky today…tonight. And I’m Molly.”

He gave her a tilt of his head and a smile. “Carson. Carson O’Connor. I, ah…hope I’m not being too forward. I’m not even sure if you’re alone. I saw you’ve been sitting here for a bit and assumed…”

“No….no it’s…fine….fine. I am here…by myself. And here are our shots.”

The two lifted their glasses, said cheers, and downed the drinks. Carson immediately started coughing. “Oh…god…sorry…sorry. That…that wasn’t what I was… expecting. Sorry. Would you like to find a table?”

They did, and Molly ordered another rounds of shots. Yes, mild Molly Hooper had every intention of getting hammered tonight; she was already well on her way, and the hell with where that might take her.

“Now then, Carson,” she started, “what brings you here? You don’t seem the type to frequent his sort of place…no offense. I’ll tell you something, I don’t come here much myself. Not anymore. My fiancé brought me here….EX fiancé, I should say.”

Carson gave her a wide grin. “Honestly, I’ve never been here. I don’t go out much. I’m not even sure why I came. Well, yes I am. My baby brother got married yesterday. All my siblings are married now. Married and raising families and I’ve barely dated in the last five years. I don’t even know how to dress to go out anymore. I mean, look at me.” He sighed. “I guess that’s pretty pathetic, isn’t it? For some reason I felt like I needed to at least give it a go tonight. That and my mum’s constant nagging. Not exactly sure what I hope to accomplish.”

“Pathetic,” Molly snorted. “You don’t even _want_ to know why I’m here then if you think your plight is pathetic. I kind of fell off the planet today. All this is to make myself feel better. Not sure if it’s working or not. Do you want to do these other shots?”

‘Ah, no…no I think I’ve had enough. I had quite a few pints earlier. But…please.”

Molly quickly downed the remaining shots and within seconds was very sorry she had. “Oh, god….that was _not_ a good idea. Would you like to dance? I really wanted to dance and if I don’t hurry up… well… I’d best do before I can’t”

“I’m not very good at it,” Carson stated.

“It doesn’t matter. All I really need is for you to hold me up.”

Within twenty minutes Molly was having difficulty navigating. “I…I don’t think I can be here anymore. I should probably….”

They made their way back to their table.

“Come with me,” Carson blatted out.

“What?”

“Come….with me. I mean… I …I have a hotel room. Two blocks down at the Celsoria. If you can’t walk I...can get a cab. Wait, sorry...sorry. Propositioning you when you’re….well…. Dumb arse. Forget it.”

Molly put her hand on his. “No…no...That…that’s okay. I ah… I don’t want to go home anyway. I don’t want to go…home.” She started sniffing a bit.

“Oh, Molly,” he said, lifting her chin so that her eyes met his, “sweet, pretty Molly. We’re both in the same bag I think. We can go back to the hotel and just…talk if you’d like. A little human comfort wouldn’t go amiss for either of us, I’m thinking. And, if the night shows we want a little more, who are we to argue? Or maybe you’ll just want to sleep. Now, you sit here and I’ll get a cab.”

He left and a woman Molly did not know approached her.

“You with him…Carson?”

She wanted to give some snarky comeback as to why it was none of the strange woman’s business, but something in the lady’s face stopped her.

“Um, yes. Yes I am with him. Why?”

The woman laughed lightly. “No real reason. I ah, just wanted to say he’s a good man. I dated him years ago, but we just weren’t that compatible. Nothing wrong on his part. I’m just more of a party girl and well, he’s more the stay-at-home type. I was quite surprised to see him here, actually. That’s all just…he’s a nice human being. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” was all Molly could think to say.

* * *

 

The room was filled with sun when Molly suddenly awoke. She quickly sat up…and instantly regretted that action.

“Oh…god,” she exclaimed as she dropped back down onto the pillow. She glanced over at the clock on the night stand. “Ten-thirty! Shit! Oh wait….it’s Sunday. Oh…my head. Where am I?”

 She looked underneath the blankets at her nakedness.

“Oh…damn. Did I really do that? Where’s...Carson?”

She yelled out his name, but got no response, so she….carefully...sat up. Her clothes were in a heap on a near-by chair and, cautiously, she put them on. After a minute, she got up and went into the bathroom. No Carson.

“I guess he’s …gone.”

She peed, washed her face, and combed through her hair as best she could with the miniature brush she had in her clutch. As she came out of the bathroom, she saw the note next to the television:

_Dearest Molly,_

_You’ll please excuse my leaving without a goodbye, but I thought it best to let you sleep. You were quite out of it. I’m not sure how much you remember from last night, but please know that it was…nice. I am glad we had the night together, but I think we both know that it was, well…it was what it was. Please don’t think I deliberately tried to avoid you this morning, I am due at my parents for a luncheon and that is the reason I needed to go. Everything is paid up, all you have to do is leave. Take care of yourself Molly...and I hope you can patch things up with that detective chap you were chattering on about._

_All my best,_

_Carson_

“Oh…fuck… What the hell did I say?’

At that moment, her phone buzzed.

It was Sherlock.

“I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.”  
― [**Edna St. Vincent Millay**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/33998.Edna_St_Vincent_Millay)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. John and Mrs. Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a talk with Mrs. Hudson.

 

“When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching -- they are your family.”

― [ **Jim Butcher**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/10746.Jim_Butcher)

 

“Hello,” she said into her mobile phone.

“Mrs. H.? It’s John”

“Oh, John, oh, bloody hell. I’ve been _so scared_. Where _are you_ , John, What is happening? Where’s Sherlock? When are coming to see…. Rosie misses you, John. She misses her mother. She….”

The voice on the other end cracked as it interrupted her.

“Oh, Jesus….thank god, so Molly did take her to you. I…”

John stopped talking and bent over with the phone between his knees trying to stave off the flood of tears and scream of relief that threatened to engulf him. Ever since the horrifying phone call Eurus had forced her brother to have with Molly Hooper, John had been silently screaming inside. But, ever the soldier, he willed himself to swallow it and deal with the danger at hand. Afterwards, when that imminent threat had passed, he allowed himself to panic for his daughter.

Rosie had been staying with Molly. He had considered asking Sarah Sawyer to possibly look after Rosie before he left with Sherlock for Sherrinford, but knew that would require much explaining and he did not have the time or will for either. So Molly Hooper it was. And then Molly’s life and home had been threatened. When Eurus announced that Molly’s flat had been rigged to blow, he wanted to shout out, but he knew he could not, and so he kept that hell to himself.

John wasn’t really a praying man, but at that moment he had sent out a plea….to whatever deity would listen…that Molly would have the good sense to realize something was terribly wrong and get herself and Rosie the hell out of the flat and to safety.

“John…. _John_ ….are you still there?”

“Yes…yes, I’m here…I’m…here,” he said as he gathered his composure. “So, Molly brought her to you…yes. Thank god.”

“Yes, she did. Actually, she brought her early this morning…like around six. She said she wasn’t feeling well. I guess she didn’t tell you?”

“No, but that’s good...I mean…that’s fine. Fine. Um. Actually, have you spoken to her _recently_? I’ve been trying to call her and she’s not answering.”

“No…not since she dropped Rosie off. John, what’s wrong?”

“Not now. Um, do you mind keeping her for a bit more? I’ll get to you as soon as I can and explain everything. Sorry to give you such a scare. And thank you...truly. I don’t know what I would have done without you...and Molly…I… It’s just been one thing after another, hasn’t it?”

Mrs. Hudson sighed into the phone. “Just….be safe, John. Rosie and I will be fine. And if Molly calls, I’ll tell her you were asking after her.”

“Right then,” he replied, and rang off.

* * *

 

When they returned to the mainland, John told Sherlock that he needed to go to his daughter. In reality, he was torn between the two, because now that the harrowing ordeal at Sherrinford was over, he sensed that Sherlock was on the verge of falling apart and would probably need him. He was _slightly_ worried that Sherlock might fall back on the crack again if someone wasn’t around to keep an eye on him. That business with Molly had ripped the detective to his core. It was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock act out of pure rage and despair because _he_ had mentally wounded another human being; even if it was to save a life. Or so they thought. He still was not _entirely_ convinced that there wasn’t some booby trap in Molly’s flat, and he’d asked Lestrade to please have that checked out as soon as possible.

He was dropped off at his flat by one of Lestrade’s men. He let himself in and quickly showered and dressed. He sat down on the bed and picked up a framed photo off of the nightstand. It was of a smiling Mary cradling a gurgling baby Rosie. He ran his finger gently across Mary’s face.

“Oh Mary,” he sighed, “what a fine pig’s breakfast we made of things, didn’t we? I’m not sure if it’s a curse or a blessing that you never knew about _“E”_ and who the hell _that_ really turned out to be. I mean… what the _absolute_ _fuck_? I cheat on you and who does it turn out to be…Sherlock’s bloody, long-forgotten sister. Sherlock’s _sister_? What the _hell_ am I supposed to make of that? The Holmes’ smile at me and I am bloody smitten? If anything ever warranted a visit with Ella…this is it.”

He sat the photo back on the stand, but continued to talk as he put his shoes on. “Rosie’s doing well. Things haven’t been easy for her, but I’m doing the best I can. Mrs. H and Molly are angels. They’re not you; no one will ever be you. But they love her like she’s their own. I’ll make sure she knows about you, Mary. And I mean the best of you. If she finds out about the other when she’s grown, well…..we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He stood and started to leave the room. He turned back.

“Oh and, ah. I…I think I’m going to go back…to Baker Street, I mean. It got beat up pretty bad in that blast, though not as bad as Mycroft predicted.  Mrs. H has promised to put all to rights and fix up a nursery for Rosie if I want. I think I may do…if Sherlock still wants me, that is. If not, I think I’ll still move. Too many memories in this flat.”

And he left.

* * *

 

Martha Hudson had taken up residence in The Hyacinth Hotel after the explosion. Fortunately, her flat was left mostly intact.  Two cracked walls and some fallen ceiling was the worst of it. She rented the largest suite the hotel had; living room, full kitchen, and three bedrooms in case her boys and Rosie wanted to stay. She intended to fix up her flat and 221B exactly as they had been. She had dealt with plenty of lunatics before and _no one_ was going to drive her or Sherlock from their home!

That’s not to say she wasn’t scared half to death; it all happened so fast. Just… ** _boom_**! And then Mycroft had burst into her flat to rescue her, pounds of debris rolling behind him. His pants were tattered, his back was slightly burned, and his hands were bleeding, but he had literally swooped her into his arms and carried her out the back. It had greatly changed her perception of him, she could tell you that.

And Sherlock and John had come out of the blast basically unscathed; John, probably due to his Army training, and Sherlock, because he was as fit and agile as a mountain goat. He always could hit the ground running. She knew there were some brush burns and John had knocked a back tooth loose, but all in all they had been lucky. _Very_ lucky.

And thank god, because poor, sweet Rosie…

She went over to where the little girl was sitting on the floor, happily playing with her block set and bent down to her.

“You dear little thing, guess what? Daddy’s coming real soon. Real soon, sweetheart.”

“Dada,” Rosie replied, “dada.” And she clapped her hands.

Mrs. Hudson picked her up and kissed her cheeks.

“That’s right, you clever girl. Now, let’s go change your nappy before he gets here, shall we?”

* * *

 

 

“That’ll be room service,” Mrs. Hudson remarked, as she headed for the hotel room door. “I took to ordering tea for us. I could have done here in this beautiful kitchen, but I think we deserve to be pampered a bit with all the hell we’ve been through.” She let the maid in, wheeling a cart laden with all sorts of goodies.

“Oh, Mrs. H. that looks lovely,” John remarked, wasting no time inspecting the cart’s offerings, while holding Rosie. “I am rather hungry. Can’t even remember when I ate a proper meal last. Those sandwiches and scones will do nicely. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hudson gave the maid a generous tip and turned back to her guests.

“And for you my little angel,” she crooned, addressing Rosie, “a sugar biscuit.” And she handed the treat to the child.

“Come,” she motioned to John, “do sit down on these wonderful chairs. At eighteen hundred quid a week, I plan on making use of every single thing in the joint.”

John chuckled. “You know, you don’t _have_ to get this big of a place just because Sherlock and… or… my daughter and I might stay. I’ve still got my lease for another two months, and Sherlock could stay with me, or I dare say Mycroft could spare a room until 221 Baker is put to rights. Thanks for that again, by the way.”

“Oh, John, it’s no hardship on my part. Now, come sit, finish your lunch, love your daughter, and then we’ll put her down for a nap. And _then_ you can give me all the awful details.”

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes later, with Rosie fast asleep in her borrowed crib, John and Mrs. Hudson returned to the living room and took up spots on the sofa.

“Alright, I’ve steeled myself up with several cups of good, strong tea, though god knows I could have used a nip of something in it. Go on then...”

And so, John gave her a condensed version of all that had taken place beginning with the girl who came to 221B claiming to be Smith’s daughter and the fake therapist and how they had both been Sherlock’s forgotten sister, and into the events at Sherrinford.  But…not of his texting affair with the girl on the bus. That unsavory business would undoubtedly come out someday. The old dear had enough to digest at the moment. She was looking rather peaked as it was.

“Oh dear,” the lady said, “A sister, kept secret for all those years! And Sherlock not remembering! _And_ …Mycroft….never saying a _word_!”

“Well, to be fair,” John began, “he was trying to do what he thought was best. He was…protecting the rest of the family...or so he thought. She’s quite mad, their sister. I haven’t even told you the half.”

Mrs. Hudson took a great gulp of her now cold tea. “But from the _parents_! I mean, I don’t have any children of my own, but I think I would be quite put out if I was Mrs. Holmes. What a _dreadful_ business.”

John blew out a long breath and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah…..dreadful. People have died, Mrs. H. And she nearly strangled Sherlock and drowned me. She’s evil, a real psychopath. I mean, I’ve worked with disturbed people before, but she…takes the cake. She makes Moriarty look like… Humpty Dumpty. And _he_ really is dead, by the way.  It’s so odd how she was so fixated on Sherlock. Maybe because they were closer in age?  At any rate, I guess they have her secured away. I really don’t know what ‘s going to happen to her.”

Mrs. Hudson moved a little closer to John and laid her hand upon his arm.

“And what about you, John. Have you made up your mind about moving back to Baker Street? Oh please do! I know you want to get on with your life, but I think it will do you, and Sherlock, a world of good to spend time together again. And I mean under the same roof. Even if it’s only for a while. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but it’s obvious you two care deeply for each other…deeply. There’s a new clinic opening up on Edgware, if you’re thinking of looking for a new position, and you already know I’m always available to stay with Rosie. Of course it’s... your decision. And I’m…rambling a bit, aren’t I?”

“No…no. it’s quite alright, Mrs. Hudson. Honestly, I think I will move back….to Baker Street. I’m not sure how Sherlock’s going to fare long term. Well, as far as the drugs go, I mean.  We’ll have to keep him away from certain places and people…that Wiggins chap for one. Unless he’s willing to clean up and make something of himself, I don’t think he should be hanging around Sherlock. Meth labs in the kitchen for _god’s_ sake! It’s a wonder _that_ didn’t blow the place sky high. And I sure as _hell_ don’t want that sort of thing around my daughter.”

“No. And it won’t be,” Mrs. Hudson assured. “That’s a promise. Well, now that we’ve got some of this aired out why don’t you go in and have a rest while Rosie’s still sleeping. I can wake you if I need to. I have one of the carpenters coming this evening to go over a few details with me on the restoration. And I’ll order us some dinner later, or we can go out if you’d prefer.”

“You know, that sounds wonderful. I really could use a nap.” John stood and Mrs. Hudson with him. He embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, again…for everything. And I’ll see you in a bit.” He retired to his hotel bedroom.

 

“Though no one can go back and make a new beginning…. Anyone can start over and make a new ending.” – Chico Xavier

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates all that has happened to him, and tries to get a handle on what he has to do next.

“All I'd ever wanted was to forget. but even when I thought I had, pieces had kept emerging, like bits of wood floating up to the surface that only hint at the shipwreck below.”

― [**Sarah Dessen**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2987.Sarah_Dessen)

 

He’d been walking the streets of London now for…how long? One hour, two hours….five? It was still dark, so dawn had not yet arrived. He’d long ago abandoned his watch. He’d looked at it once after returning to the mainland only to discover that the face had been smashed and the hands missing, so he threw it in the next bin he passed. No doubt it had happened when he went ballistic on the coffin meant for Molly. Molly. He would have to face her before too long, and he was not looking forward to that task one little bit. The thought of what he had done…been forced to do…made his gut clench and the bile rise again to his throat. He knew he had been thoughtless with her in the past, but he had been trying…seriously making an effort….to not do or say anything to hurt her. And now…

He was also going to have to find a place to spend the night…or what was left of it.  And after that…? At least it was just until 221B was set to rights. He knew he was welcome to occupy one of Mrs. Hudson’s rooms at the hotel, but tonight, at least, he needed to be alone. He really didn’t want to bother John anyway as he knew _he_ needed some time to concentrate solely on his daughter; and god only knew exactly what shape Mycroft was in. Besides, Greg had promised to look after him for a bit. Of course, there was always the hell hole that was Wiggins’ domain. But… no…bad idea. Bad, _bad_ idea. The state he was in now…it wouldn’t take much coaxing. He was going to have to totally eradicate all of _that_ from his life. It wasn’t going to be easy. Oh who was he kidding…it was going to be _hell_. That last episode though, when he had thrown himself into the shit full bore…yeah…harsh…harsh. But all in a good days work, right Sherlock? Catch the bad guy; trick the villain. And all for love: Save John Watson. Killing two birds with one stone. And it worked, by god. It almost killed _him_ …..but it worked. But, no….never again. Not if he wanted John and Rosie to come…..home. Yes…home. That’s the way he was thinking now. Mary…was…gone (sweet Jesus), and John and Rosie belonged at Baker Street with him and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty and his influences were now eradicated, Eurus was contained…he could keep them safe. At least that’s what he wanted to believe.

And if “Billy” was serious about wanting to “get out” and do something constructive with his life, he would see to it that provisions were made for him to do so, but he wasn’t going to waste his time with him either. Some people, in fact, a lot of people it seemed, didn’t want to be saved. Plain and simple.

Okay, to the matter at hand: he was hungry, he was cold, he had to pee, and it was starting to mist. He _really_ needed to find something to eat and rest awhile, so a shop and a bolt-hole it was. He hadn’t been paying much attention to his surrounds, so he shook himself and stopped. There…a shop open on the corner, good. He only had about eight quid on him, but he’d find something.

Bolt-Holes. Molly was out; the cemetery and Leinster Gardens raised too many memories of Mary, so no; the greenhouse had been discovered by someone (damn pack of vandalizing kids, probably) and trashed; Parliament Hill held little protection; Dagmar, no… for the same reason he wouldn’t go to Wiggins; so…the Locks or Big Ben…he was closer to Ben and he could look down at the city he loved. Feel the myriad vibrations of its quivering heart. It would offer some sort of solace. And he would be alone.

He entered the shop, bought an extra-large, extra-strong coffee, a bag of crisps, and a packet of chocolate biscuits. He sweet talked the young cashier into letting him use the “not for the public” loo, and left for Big Ben.

It was cold up here. Or maybe it was just him. He sipped his coffee, ate the crisps, and as the beginnings of dawn appeared on the horizon, he witnessed parts of the city coming alive for the day. Not that it was ever silent. But, bit by bit, he saw lights and people emerging from once darkened corners.

He really needed to sleep, but first he needed to think, or he wouldn’t even be able to sleep. Less than a week ago, he didn’t even remember Eurus existed. Or did he? For years he’d felt there was something…missing, something very important, but what it was always eluded him.

The night John came to Baker Street after awakening from Eurus’s tranquilizer was harrowing. He’d walked into 221B extremely agitated after dropping Rosie off with Mrs. H.  John had paced the floor, kept running his hands across his face, and muttering “Jesus”, before finally plopping into his old chair and spilling it all out to him. Sherlock had found himself unable to utter a word as he felt that one last element, that one last piece to his life’s puzzle, click into place.  Just like that, many things magically made sense. No, he didn’t have all the sordid details yet, but he knew who did: Mycroft. But had Mycroft’s silence about the matter been born out of true concern…or something else?

And so, he and John had devised the little drama with the film and Stephen King theatrics….with the help of Wiggins and a few of his homeless network. The splicing of the film, the concocting of the “blood” for the pictures (guaranteed to wipe right off, no harm done)…all Wiggins’ doings. The man really _did_ have a lot going for him…pity. And John was right, scaring the bejesus out of Mycroft drove him to 221B’s door and a confession.

After the initial announcement from John, everything had been so hurried, he hadn’t really taken the time to _seriously_ process just what the whole insane business meant to him. And none of them, least of all Mycroft, had had the slightest clue that they were walking straight into Eurus’s deadly game when they pirated (partly) their way to Sherrinford. Dear god, what a fool Mycroft must feel. Sherlock felt a few tears of compassion make their way down his cheeks. I guess he wasn’t such a rubbish big brother after all. But, think of it. The man who ran the British government (and who the hell knew how many others) had failed to be successful in managing his own little sister….their brilliant-but-deranged sister. Jesus, what other horrors might have gone on there they knew nothing about? Visions of those cannibals ran across his mind.

And their parents. Of course, they would have to be told. That….was going to be a bitch. Well, he wouldn’t let Mycroft face that particular hurricane alone. They’d all need each other more than ever now. He just hoped and prayed the shock wouldn’t kill either one of his parents. Dad’s heart wasn’t that strong and Mum, although outwardly seemed tough as nails, had already had one collapse.

And…Eurus. What the absolute _hell_ was he going to do about her? He knew he couldn’t just let this go…he just couldn’t. He wasn’t going to let her down again. Never again. No matter what anyone had to say about it. No one was going to stop him. An idea was already forming in his mind about what he was going to do.

Sherlock opened the packet of biscuits, stuffed several into his mouth at once, chewed, and then washed it all down with the last of his coffee. He really need to lie down now.

 

888888888888888888888888

 

He was drifting off, and his mind palace was beckoning. He could feel himself going deep into its core, and suddenly…he was nearing the one darkened area there he had taken great pains to avoid all his life. He couldn’t see it, but he knew there was a door. A thick, fanciful, wooden one with “do not enter” tape across a smoky window, and a red wax seal across the lock. Now, a force he could not withstand drew him to it. A Siren song. He went up to the door, reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. He unlocked it and crossed the thresh hold into….

  _They’d been having such a fun day. Mummy had packed a big picnic basket full of all sorts of yummy things for lunch, and Dad had even brought a bundle of wood so they could roast marshmallows right there on the water’s edge. He loved these days at the beach. Especially like today when his best friend Victor came along. Mycroft was fun, in his own way, but he tired easily, and would rather sit reading, or look for shells in the sand while eating sweeties and cake. And Eurus…Eurus was just…mostly…in the way. She’d been playing with her toy plane and bugging Sherlock to play with her, but he wanted to continue his pirate adventure with Victor. And he didn’t want her tagging along because she couldn’t keep up with them; and besides, she wouldn’t follow the rules, not even the secret “Pirates Code” ones. But, she complained to mummy who then forced Sherlock to let her join in. So, he gave her some trivial little thing to do like “dig for buried treasure here” while he and Victor went off to “slay the Sea-Dragon” over there. It’s not that he didn’t like Eurus, it’s just that she wasn’t …well…Victor. And he could play with her any old time._

 _On this particular day though, Eurus seemed particularly cross about it all. And Victor_ was _being kind of a tease. When they returned in an hour or so to daddy’s now-roaring fire for mugs of tea and marshmallow roasting, Sherlock could sense Eurus’s displeasure. He felt a bit guilty so he gave her his sword to brandish for a bit and helped her roast her marshmallow to just the right shade of golden brown. However, Victor was making silly faces throughout the whole process causing Sherlock to laugh and he knew that Eurus continued to be unhappy about not having her brother’s full attention. She didn’t say anything, but Sherlock could see the dark behind her eyes._

_Two days later, Victor disappeared._

_He had rung up that morning to ask if he could come play, and the boys’ mother’s both gave the okay. The Trevor property bordered that of the Holmes’ and the two boy’s often met in the middle, giving the both of them about a five minute walk. The plan was for both boys to leave their homes at eleven am, meet, and walk back to Musgrave Hall for the day. However, Mrs. Holmes was busy doing laundry, and Sherlock was caught up in playing with his Lego’s, and neither was paying attention to the time._

_But Eurus was._

_She must have seen her chance, snuck out to meet Victor alone, and led him to the well; presumably tricking him into thinking that’s where he was supposed to meet Sherlock. When Mrs. Holmes came in from pegging out the last load of laundry, she finally looked at the clock; it was fifteen minutes past eleven. She hollered to Sherlock to scurry along. He ran through the field to meet his friend, but Victor never showed and was nowhere to be found. No one ever saw him again._

_Now Sherlock’s mind flew to the well. There was Victor, cold and shivering. Crying and pleading for help that would never come. And then Victor morphed into John. He was tugging at his chained leg, screaming at the top of his lungs for Sherlock to come save him. Suddenly the water started pouring into the well, rising rapidly. John was frantic now, screaming for Sherlock and cursing. “I’m going to die, you bastard. Sherlock, do you hear me? I’m going to drown and it’s all your fault. You promised to keep me safe. You made a vow. You swore! And now I am going to die!”_

_Sherlock was running, running among gravestones now, yelling to John to hang on he was coming...he was coming…please hang on. Then hands…no… bones, arm and hand bones, reached up out of the graves, grabbing his ankles, tripping him up and trying to pull him under…down into the cold dark earth. He was yelling for John; John was yelling for him. And then John’s voice started fading away and the last thing Sherlock heard before he was pulled completely underground was the bubbling, the gurgling…the dying breath of his best friend. Only this time, he died with him._

88888888888888888

Someone was shaking him, a bit harshly, and speaking his name.

“Mr. Holmes…wake up Mr. Holmes. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to go.”

Sherlock slowly made his way into a sitting position. He was stiff with cold and his head was pounding. And that dream…. Thank god that’s what it was…that last bit had scared the living hell out of him. He raised his head to see who had awakened him, and saw that it was old Tommy Gilroy. Tommy had been working here with Big Ben most of his life, and now performed only light maintenance and janitorial work… at the age of eighty-three. All of the caretakers knew that Sherlock occasionally “visited”, and they respectfully left him be, but, as Tommy explained, some inspectors were due here in an hour and they might not be so gracious, nor exactly delighted, to find someone using the area as a makeshift hostel. Sherlock thanked the old man and shakily made his way to the street.

He had considerably less than two pounds left, not even enough for a cup of tea. He was too disheveled to cross the doorway of any café anyway. Right. To Mrs. Hudson’s it was then. At least he could shower, shave, and get something decent to eat. He had left a suitcase full of what clothes he had salvaged from the apartment at the hotel, too. And he might even have to take her up on the offer of a bed for a couple of hours. Or a couple of days.  He started walking in the direction of the Hyacinth Hotel when another thought crossed his mind. He took his phone out of his coat pocket, and put in the number of Molly Hooper.

 

“Anyone can hide. Facing up to things, working through them, that's what makes you strong.”

“So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong. Instead, they were all pieces. Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.”  
― [**Sarah Dessen**](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2987.Sarah_Dessen)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard and Amelia Holmes try to come to terms with the knowledge that their daughter is still alive. They both privately reflect on the past and their place in the future of their life with Eurus.

“And no matter what anybody says about grief and about time healing all wounds, the truth is, there are certain sorrows that never fade away until the heart stops beating and the last breath is taken.”   
― [ **Tiffanie DeBartolo**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/65959.Tiffanie_DeBartolo)

 

Amelia Holmes was at the kitchen sink paring potatoes…and then she cut herself. The slash was long, but not very deep, and grabbing a dishtowel to catch the flow of blood, she made her way to the bathroom. She finished bandaging her finger, sat down on the toilet lid, and started weeping… again. Ever since Mycroft and Sherlock had broken the news to her and Richard that morning that Eurus was still alive….ALIVE…she had not been able to give her full concentration to anything. Poor Richard had almost fainted with the shock and honestly, she was worried about him. She went back to the kitchen and her potatoes, now covered in blood. _Blast…_ She had no desire to start over. They would have to make do with leftovers or something from a tin for dinner. She really didn’t feel like eating anyway. The potatoes went down the garbage disposal.

She switched the kettle on and poured herself a brandy while she waited. Three-thirty was probably too early for one, but she didn’t give a pop. She finished the brandy and figured she should go check on Richard. He was still sleeping, probably for the best. He had consented to take one of her tranquilizers, something he had never done. She hadn’t seen him this upset in years and his heart wasn’t that strong anymore. It was worrisome, tiresome...god-awful. He had been so angry…almost incoherent by the time they left Mycroft’s office, and Sherlock had insisted on driving them home. Throughout the drive, he had kept repeating over and over how sorry he was and that he hadn’t known. And Richard had cried how Mycroft had betrayed them all. Sherlock stayed just long enough to see his father settled with the tranquilizer and then left. Amelia wanted to discuss things in more detail with her younger son but thought it needed to wait until tomorrow. There had been quite enough drama for one day.

She made a pot of Darjeeling and settled down on the sofa with it and a package of Rich Teas. Her favorite Miss Read book was there on the end table, but she knew there was no point in bothering to try and read.

When Mycroft had summoned them to his office that morning she had suspected that it was going to be something disturbing, but his news went beyond that. It was devastating. Life changing.

She had been quite upset with him. Keeping his sister alive all those years…alive and hidden away. And all those people that _did_ know…and not _one word_ to her or Richard….Eurus’s own parents!  And Rudy! Why if he were still alive he’d get a tongue lashing the likes of which he had never seen…Richard would probably have throttled him one. Eurus was _their_ daughter! Rudy had no right…. _no right_ …to keep her from them, no matter how deranged he thought she was.

And Mycroft. He would still have been in his teens when it all took place and they secured her away. And what…maybe thirty years old when Rudy died? It was a huge burden to be sure, but he wouldn’t have _had_ to face all that alone. Perhaps she had been a bit harsh pronouncing him limited. Sherlock was probably right that Mycroft had done his best; or at least thought that he had. Sherlock was so often right. Still, she was sure her younger son would have handled things differently. If she, Richard, and Sherlock, had been able to have access to Eurus all along, perhaps she wouldn’t have felt so abandoned and alone. Perhaps none of those people would have died.

And what _had_ Eurus thought throughout all those years? Especially at first when she was still a child? Did she wonder what happened to us? Did she ask for her mum or dad at all? Or Sherlock? Did she know we _didn’t_ know where she was? Mycroft hadn’t elaborated on any of that. If they tried to explain to her now, was she in any state of mind to understand? Could she forgive _them_?

They had tried…so hard…to help her as a child. And failed.

Mycroft claims she is beyond their view, cannot…or will not…communicate with anyone now. But she knows Sherlock thinks otherwise. She could see it in his face. He would come up with something. He had to.

She drained her teacup and lay down on the sofa. She didn’t want to think anymore right now.

 

* * *

 

Richard Holmes awoke to see the last rays of the day’s sun filtering through the blinds. His mouth was parched, and he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. He shuffled his way out of the bed and made for the bathroom where he relieved himself and splashed some cool water on his face. “I look so…old,” he told his reflection in the mirror. “And feel even older.”

He went downstairs in search of his wife and found her sleeping on the den sofa. Quietly, he headed for the kitchen and a cuppa. He sipped the hot liquid and felt the warmth as it made its way down his throat. All the troubling thoughts that had graciously left him in his slumber, now returned.

What was Mycroft _thinking,_ keeping his sister locked up like some sort of….of…. _animal_ all those years? And his own brother? Although, Rudy’s seemingly abrupt standoffishness made some sort of crazy sense now. Only fifteen months apart in age, their only other sibling had been a sickly brother with weak lungs, ten years Richard’s junior, who had succumbed to pneumonia when he was sixteen. He and Rudy had always been close up until…until _the fire_.  Richard had never been able to figure out what had happened to cool their relationship after that incident. And Rudy always had some seemingly logical excuse as to why he and his family couldn’t make it for Christmas, or birthdays, or what have you.

“Well then,” he lamented, “mystery solved.”

Still, even as sorrowful as the loss of his brother’s friendship was, even the deep hurt caused by Mycroft’s deceit and knowing the wreckage it had brought down on poor Sherlock, even those pains did not compete with the horror of feeling that the real blame for _all_ these travesties lay with him and Amelia.

“There must have been something more we could have done,” he scolded himself. “Some… _some_ intervention that should have taken place before it… all went to hell.”

That he had failed his daughter had been the great anguish of his life. And the toll it had taken on Amelia….sweet mother of Mary. Thankfully, they had always been strong in their love, because such tragedy would have undoubtedly felled a lesser pair.

But what? What more _could_ have been done, for pity’s sake?

All those counselors and therapists. The GP’s and medications. Acupuncture, herbal supplements, hypnosis (which turned out to be a _miserable_ failure; the hypnotist quitting her practice soon afterward). They’d tried a nanny and several bouts of one-on-one interventions. A Vicar, Priest, Pastor, Reverend; one after another.

And, no pun intended, but…Christ…there had even been talk …and talk’s _all_ it was….of exorcism.

That damned old relic, Dr. Sampson, had even hinted about the possibility of electroshock or lobotomy.

But all their effort had been to no avail.

No one outside the family had seriously suspected Eurus of being responsible for the Trevor boy’s disappearance. But she herself _told everyone_ that she set the fire.

Her plane couldn’t land, so apparently, she had wanted everyone to crash and burn with her.

Sherlock was the only one she had ever been able to truly connect with. Not her mother, not him. But Sherlock was just a young boy himself; it wasn’t fair to place the burden of his sister’s happiness and well-being on him.

And now…now what were they to do? All those wounds re-opening. More horrors, more deaths at Eurus’s hands?

He wanted to so desperately to see her, wanted so badly to take her into his arms and tell her he was sorry and that it would be alright. This time, it would be alright.

Bloody hell; he prayed his old bones would be strong enough to handle this.

And Amelia…. Dear Jesus….please help us. Please don’t let us fail her again.

Because there was one thing they knew for sure: they loved her.

 

“Love doesn't come with an on-off switch. It's made of too many threads of memory and hope and heartache that weave themselves into the very core of who you are.”   
― [ **Martina Boone**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6423161.Martina_Boone)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Eurus

“To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.”

“I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.”

"Is there no way out of the mind?”

― [**Sylvia Plath**](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4379.Sylvia_Plath)

 

Eurus Holmes sat cross-legged in the middle of the tiny room…cell really…staring straight ahead. This was the place the residents of Sherrinford were put when they couldn’t be trusted to stay in their own room. And even though Eurus had been in a virtual catatonic state since returning to the facility after her absurd fiasco, no one could be certain that she would remain that way.  

She may have been silent and unmoving, but her mind was screaming…. racing. Churning out thoughts so fast she could barely process them all.

From the time she had been placed in this facility as a young girl, she had fantasized about being reunited with Sherlock.

For the first few months after her arrival at Sherrinford, she was kept heavily sedated, one day simply ran into the next, and it hadn’t even occurred to her that no one had come to visit. But, eventually, she was weaned off of all but the most necessary meds and the young girl became more aware of her surroundings. She enquired of the doctors, nurses, and teachers looking after her about her family, but was always given the same answer: I’ll see what I can do. But no one did anything.

And then, six months in, Mycroft appeared at one of her weekly counseling sessions. She bombarded him with questions. Chiefly- why had no one bothered to come see her? Eurus sensed her brother’s uneasiness in answering. His response was that their parents were unwell, and it would be too much of a shock for them to see her in this environment. Eurus knew that was a blatant lie and never asked about them again. However, she had begged and pleaded with him to allow her visitations with Sherlock but was told that it simply wasn’t possible. Another lie.

Mycroft continued to visit during the counseling sessions almost every month and she continued to plead to see their brother. And then, one day in the middle of what was already an exceptionally tense meeting, Eurus suddenly stood, picked up her chair and threw it at Mycroft. He managed to duck out of its path and immediately ran over to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her violently.

“Listen, listen to me, Eurus, you’ve got to stop this. Just stop it, do you understand? Sherlock’s not coming…he’s not coming…ever, so stop going on about it. I…I can’t help it. It’s not my fault. Just…please…stop. I’m leaving. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

He did not return for almost a year and when he did, she never again asked him anything about _anyone_ in the family.

One day, when she was being taken for her daily shower, she passed a room whose window blinds were open, and she could have sworn she saw Uncle Rudy in that room talking to one of her doctors. But, it was only the once so she assumed she must have been mistaken.

As time went on, darkness consumed her. She was convinced she was unlovable, foul, and would never be fit for society. No one cared for this girl who had done unspeakable things, and no one was ever going to come and help her land. Her young psyche broke and bleed and bouts of insanity possessed her.

And then something happened that changed everything: Moriarty.

For some years, she had been providing Mycroft with very useful information in exchange for “treats” of her choosing. Her request for the unsupervised time with Jim Moriarty was not one he readily agreed to, but Eurus became silent, refusing to cooperate with him and her doctors, so Mycroft finally relented. He had even remarked how he was afraid that that decision would come back to haunt him one day. How right he was.

The fateful meeting took place, Eurus laid her plans before Moriarty, and a deal was struck. Now, all Eurus had to do was bid her time and wait for the ideal moment. A time when she was quite certain her plot would work. For nearly five years she planned and schemed. She read books on mind control and brainwashing. She befriended some of the staff and exchanged sexual favors for money and information. The money was put into an account in her name in a London bank awaiting the day she needed it.

And then she learned about all that her brother had gone through to save the man named John Watson. Dr. John Watson. Widowed with a tiny daughter and sinking into despair. Sherlock had been willing to place himself at death’s door to save his life. Would he come, after all this time, and…. _finally_ …save her?

And he did.

She had put him in the most horrific of situations, forced him to make impossible decisions…and he had prevailed. He had finally figured out the riddle of her little song and met her in the place where she had set her separation from her family in motion all those years ago.

And he had loved her.

He took her into his arms and loved her. He soothed her and…he helped her land. He helped her land and she helped him save his friend.

And now that she was “on the ground”, she didn’t know what to do next. Her mind had been so consumed with landing that she had given little thought to how she would survive once she did…. if she ever did.

So, she had shut down. Her mind in turmoil and screaming for her brother, among other things. Had she gone through all of that just to fold in on herself? Would Sherlock return and hold her once more, whisper in her ear how much he had missed her, how happy he was to be with her after all this time?

He had to return…he had to.

“Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?” ― **Sylvia Plath**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
